Undercover Lover
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: Mycroft brings a murder to Sherlock's attention, Sherlock and John visit  a gay bar pretending to be a couple, and come out as one! Drama ensues. Slash.
1. Undercover Lover

**Undercover Lover**

'**You're my undercover lover****  
****You get your kicks for free****  
****And you won't ever find another****  
****Who's even half as good as me****  
****You're my undercover lover****  
****You get your kicks for free****  
****Now get away cause this is killing me'**

**Kids in Glass Houses.**

**Undercover Lover**

Mycroft Holmes strolled along the bustling pavements that were Baker Street, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea for Moses. His eyes glanced up at his brother's humble residence, 221b. Surprisingly, when he looked up at the flat's grimy window, Sherlock's usual towering presence was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was caught up in another of those damn experiments of his. Or maybe it was that new flatmate he had acquired. Who was that chap again? James? Jim? John, that was him. Ex-Army doctor if he recalled correctly. He must be a pretty resilient fellow to put up with my brother. Mycroft certainly couldn't.

He approached the weathered, black door, knocked, and then that annoying old land lady ushered him in, chattering to him all the way. He tried to block it out.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to see your brother then, Mycroft dearie?"

Why did she call him dearie? He was not a two year old imbecile for god sake! "Yes," he stated curtly.

She showed him up the narrow wooden staircase, and he tutted in disgust at the peeling paint and mouldy ceilings. Really, Sherlock should move to better accommodation than this hovel. Opening the door he observed Sherlock dipping a human eyeball into what appeared to be hydrochloric acid, and Jame- John grimacing with disgust over his cup of coffee. He almost felt pity for him. Almost.

"Good morning Mycroft. What can I do you on this fine day? Thanks for knocking," Sherlock muttered sarcastically, before he could even get a word in. John looked up in surprise; he hadn't noticed he had entered.

"Another very important case has been brought to my interest."

"And I thought you just wanted the company of your dear old brother," Sherlock retorted sarcastically.

"Don't be so childish, Sherlock."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Mycroft sighed, bemused. He was always so frustrating.

"Last night a senior secret service government official was stabbed 37 times in the back outside a bar in East London. His body was found in the garbage bins this morning."

"And who might that be?"

"It doesn't matter. You just need to find his murderer."

"Why should I be so interested in this case?

"You will be paid a large sum of money."

"I don't need money."

"I can't involve the police. If this goes public, the whole government is screwed."

"I can't do anything without facts."

"I took the liberty of bringing a full report with me."

"You assumed I would take it."

"Naturally. There's a taxi waiting outside."

Sherlock turned to John and asked "John? Would you like to join me? It won't take very long, promise!"

"When do I never!" John grinned. They both laughed at some secret joke.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said. "Did I mention that it's a gay bar?

John choked on his coffee and spluttered. Sherlock stared at him for a few agonizing seconds before stating calmly,

"A senior government official at a gay bar. How very embarrassing for you. Cancel the taxi, I've just realised I have to finish a crucial experiment of mine which cannot be left alone for several hours. I'll come later. Are you still available John?"

John still looked perturbed, but nodded slightly.

"Excellent! I shall see you two gentlemen tomorrow for a full report. This is much appreciated Sherlock."

Sherlock was already back at his experiment, replying without even looking up,

"Of course it is."

"For now then. Cheerio fellows!" he said cheerfully.

Closing the door behind him, he chuckled.


	2. The Snog a Thon Part 1

Later that night, Sherlock and John were sat squashed together in a black taxi, with bleary 90s hits from the broken radio droning in the background. John was staring down at the littered taxi floor, contemplating inwardly to himself. Trust Sherlock to have an experiment until late at night, when London clubs were at their busiest. This brought back memories of his university years; puking in toilets and waking up with a random guy in his bed. He was the one that had agreed to this. Why had he? He fixed his gaze on the bleak, black sky outside the misted window. His breath condensed on the grimy glass. It was a cold night. Without knowing, he subconsciously snuggled closer to Sherlock.

"John?" Sherlock shocked him out of his reverie. "If worst comes to worst, we might have to go undercover as a gay couple. That's alright with you, isn't it?" He said this in an offhand manner. "I don't want to attract any unnecessary attention."

"Umm, yeah, sure, whatever," John gabbled, embarrassed. Well, he'd come too far now.

"Just this once," Sherlock said, touching his arm reassuringly. Little did he know what effect that had on John.

They were almost at their destination. The streets were busy, slivers of music escaping from the numerous clubs, vomit already splattering the pavement. London's night life at its best. The taxi stopped at the curb, just outside the bar. They stepped out into the bitter cold air. Sherlock turned to face him and whispered quietly in his ear.

"Hold my hand. Now. Do it."

John couldn't question him. Awkwardly, he took hold of Sherlock's hand, entwining their fingers. A shiver went down his spine, and it wasn't the cold. What was he thinking? They started walking briskly towards the bar door. As they approached, the bouncer winked at Sherlock.

"This isn't your usual scene, Sherlock."

"Dave." Sherlock nodded back.

This isn't what you think it is..." John tried to tell him, but the bar door was already closed behind him, the bouncer chuckling on the other side. He turned to survey his surroundings. It was like an ordinary bar, but full of gay couples. At least they wouldn't be inconspicuous. Sherlock was observing to, in his usual manner. He started dragging John towards the bar. He was surprisingly expert at this, blending in perfectly, bobbing his head to the music, smiling back at the smiles given – which was a lot. John felt strangely possessive. They took a stool. The bartender (obviously gay) was wiping glasses. He seemed friendly enough.

"Awright loves?" he grinned. "What can I getcha?"

"Nothing thanks," Sherlock replied cordially. They had to stay sober, unfortunately, John thought.

"Awright then loves. That's cool. You'll be havin' one later though, betcha! You staying sober for the snog –a-thon competition I suppose then?"

This didn't seem to faze Sherlock at all, but John's stomach was turning flips like an acrobat, he felt nauseous. Sherlock replied with his usual, cool calm,

"Yes, we are."

"Awright, cool. The sign up board's over there if you want."

"Certainly. John, if you will?"

Oh god. Sherlock actually wanted him to do this. The walk up to the board was a simple task, but he was sweating, it was agonizing. As he shakily wrote their names, he felt like he was signing his own death warrant. There was turning back after this. He'd be a different man. There were no more pretend games now, this was real. He felt even sicker after he'd read the description.

'An all out snogging match (with tongues) where couples compete to see who can hold their kiss the longest! Winners receive a tray of shots between them!'

He sat down next to Sherlock, who was already on his second bottle of some obscure alcohol that John had never heard of. It must have been obscure. So much for them staying sober.

"You that nervous?" John grinned weakly.

"Aren't you?" Sherlock did not return the grin..

"I'll be back in a minute." Sherlock headed in the direction of the gents. He's left me, John thought. Well, he might as well have one whilst he was waiting. Sherlock had broke the rule.

"I'll have whatever he had please."


	3. Drunken Fool in Love

Sherlock stood in front of the cracked mirror, needlessly flicking at his brown locks. Well, he was at a gay bar after all. In truth, he was just wasting time. He was nervous, an emotion Sherlock rarely felt. If at all. He didn't normally feel any emotion usually. He was a high functioning sociopath, and proud to be one. His only exception was John. He was his one weakness. What did those mundane beings call it? Love, that was it. He didn't like feeling any emotion. What if John rejected him? Another needless emotion would follow, humiliation. He sighed, gave his hair one last adjustment and walked towards the bathroom door. John would start to get suspicious. He'd been almost 10 minutes now. He pushed open the heavy wooden door.

John was having a good time. He wasn't too drunk, just a few shots and several bottles of that obscure drink of Sherlock's. He'd finished off a tray of shots when he thought no one was looking. Yummm. OH SHIT. Sherlock was coming out of the gents. Nice hair. Fuck. Sherlock did not look a happy bunny. He was going to hide.

Oh great. He'd left John for ten minutes, and look what happened. He looked heavily drunk. Judging by the amount of glasses surrounding him, he'd had more than a dozen shots, and several bottles of Speedball (a personal favourite of Sherlock's – Vodka and Redbull). Did John really need a full time babysitter? He didn't want to be the sober, responsible one. That was John job, although now he seemed clearly incapacitated. He approached the bar. John shouted his name and waved. Several people turned and stared. Sherlock blatantly ignored them. John had clearly seen the stern expression on his face, because now he was attempting to hide under a table. With people sitting round it. He felt like a parent with a misbehaving two year old. John would regret this later. After finally managing to extract John, he sat him down at a table.

Sherlock was pissed off. Even in his drunken state, John could tell that. He kept smiling and giggled. John thought he might have tried to stroke his face several times. Then that lovely waiter came around taking orders. Before he could even get a word in, Sherlock shooed him off. John wasn't happy.

"What was that for? I wanted another drink! This isn't fair!" John slurred drunkenly.

"In case it hasn't escaped your notice John, life isn't fair. Anyway, you are severely drunk and I don't want to be the one wiping vomit of your face in the morning. I'll take you outside for some fresh air. It might sober you up."

John complacently followed Sherlock outside the back door of the bar, into an alleyway filled with the putrid stench of garbage.

"Those aren't especially good shoes you're wearing, are they?"

"Um, I don't think so..." John was confused.

"Good. Don't hate me for what I'm about to do. It's the only way to make

you sober."

"What..." but before John could get another word in; Sherlock had pushed him up against the alley wall and shoved two fingers done his throat. John couldn't help it, he wretched. Vomit spewed up onto the cobbled floor, Sherlock nimbly stepping aside. John was surprised, but he felt better with less alcohol in his system, although he'd still have a killer hangover in the morning. Once John had finished spewing, he turned and stared at Sherlock.

"What the hell was that for?" John exclaimed angrily. He felt humiliated. Had he been that drunk? He still felt woozy.

"Do you like mints?" Sherlock asked, seemingly unaffected by John's anger.

"Yes, but not now..." but before he could protest, Sherlock had popped three mints in his mouth. "You stink, John" he said calmly.

John was surprised. That was thoughtful of him, "Thank you", he managed to say through a mouthful of mints and saliva.

"Let's go inside, shall we? The competition's probably about to start," Sherlock looked slightly twitchy, he was nervous, but refused to show it.

Sherlock went first through the door, John following. He was still dizzy, and he stumbled on the step, but before he fell to the ground, Sherlock darted to his side and caught him by the arm. John looked up at him; Sherlock was looking at him, his eyes full of concern and worry, and despite his confused and dazed emotions, John felt a tingle off electricity go through him.

"Thanks."

Sherlock seemingly ignored his gratitude and continued on walking. John, exasperated at Sherlock's rejection of his thanks, but well used to it by now, followed reluctantly.


	4. Snog A Thon Part 2  My First Kiss

**'My first kiss went a little like this **  
**I said no more sailors **  
**And no more soldiers **  
**With your name in a heart **  
**Tattooed up n the shoulders **  
**Your kiss is like whiskey **  
**It get's me drunk **  
**And I wake up in the morning **  
**With the taste of your tongue.' 30H3**

Whilst John and Sherlock had been outside, the bar staff had been setting up a makeshift platform, the bar now buzzing with the infectious party vibe, hollers echoing through the building. Dave was kept busy.

Sherlock strode into the bar, John tottering slightly behind him. Even the smell made him woozy. Sherlock was nervous. He needed alcohol. He spotted a table full of particularly drunken idiots, and casually slipping past, discretely picked up one of the many full beer glasses, and continued walking by. John stared with amazement.

Sherlock slid into a sat, looking at him with a smirk on his face. "Yes, I know John. You think that was a highly immoral thing to do. I should go and give it back, right now." He took a sip innocently, grinning at John, daring him to contradict him with his eyes.

"No, no. That was brilliant! I've got to give it a try!"

Sherlock looked at him, bemused. "At your own peril." He smiled knowingly.

That particular attempt did not go well, observed Sherlock, amused. A faint smile crossed his lips. John would have a lovely black eye in the morning. Not mentioning the reshaped nose. They were sat a table, John cradling his swollen, bloody knuckles, watching the presenter (gay) abuse the microphone.

"Hello, gentlemen and gentlemen!" The presenter grinned at his own little joke. Everyone else glared. Coughing slightly, he continued, "And welcome to tonight's SNOG-A-THON competition!"

A cheer rose from the drunken crowd.

"Everyone ready for some full frontal tonsil tennis?"

Another cheer. John gulped.

"Then let's begin! Can tonight's competitors take to the stage and stand behind their numbers please!

John and Sherlock stood up almost simultaneously, looking at each other. Sherlock entwined their hands like it was the most natural thing in the world. John was slightly startled. Sherlock turned to face him. God, his eyes were deep.

"You ready John?" Sherlock spoke in his most serious voice.

"When you are!" John chuckled nervously.

They walked up onto the makeshift stage. Standing behind their number, John observed the other couples. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. He wondered if any of them were in the same predicament as he was. Somehow he doubted this. This better be worth the case, he thought. His thoughts were stopped in motion when the presenter swaggered onto the front of the stage, microphone and stopwatch in hand.

"On your marks, Get. Set. SNOG! "

As Sherlock's face moved towards to meet his, John wondered for what seemed like the hundredth if this was just some crazy, drug induced dream. The world stopped. Everything slowed down. John saw Sherlock's beautiful lips, slightly parted, eyes tenderly caressing him. He felt a bead of perspiration trickle through his hair. Definitely a dream, he reassured himself. But then their lips met, and the world sped back up.


	5. Teenage Dreams

_**This thought occured to me whilst drinking coffee, very random! I didn't want things to go entirely smoothly so here is my supposed solution! Don't worry, things will work out!**_

When their lips met, John's mind blew. How the hell had he not known he was gay? Sherlock's lips were soft but firm, enclosed around his. His subconscious knew instantly that he loved Sherlock. John had spent so many years without affection of any kind; he felt he could on like this forever. He begged to God – for the first time – that his feelings were returned by Sherlock, or shit, he was going to make an idiot out of himself. But Sherlock was a sociopath, he had even stated so himself, sociopaths didn't feel any emotions. Or did they? But John's thoughts were brought to his current blissful situation when Sherlock tapered fingers slid around his waist, bringing them closer. John's heart almost exploded with sheer longing. He slid his hands up Sherlock's silk shirt, caressing his lithe muscles. If anyone caught this on camera, he would die. In the corner of his eye, he saw the other couples dropping off like flies, gasping and panting for breath. Everyone was cheering them on now, some shouting obscene things, the presenter was whooping. He seemed to have an everlasting supply of oxygen now. Their tongues were flying desperately around each other's mouths, mapping them out. His hands were clinging to Sherlock's gorgeous brown locks, Sherlock's arms around his neck. This was going to turn into more than a snog if they weren't careful. They were the last couple standing now, and John wasn't leaving anytime soon. What he never had this opportunity again? He needed this moment to last forever, imprinted on his memory. Then, annoyingly, some persistent idiot started tapping him on the shoulder. He ignored it. Soon the tapping turned into shaking, and then he was forcefully dragged away from Sherlock's grasp, panting. Sherlock was gazing at him longingly. He turned round to the person and shouted, "WHAT NOW?" very loudly. 'That person' turned out to be the presenter, quivering slightly, holding a tray of shots.

"Congratulations! You've won!" he passed the tray to John, turned around and walked of the stage. He must have been pretty scared. As the drunken crowd burst into cheers and whoops, Sherlock whispered in John's ear,

"We definitely have them fooled now," and then casually slipped past him and walked out of the back door to the pub. This innocent comment felt like a physical blow to John's stomach. He felt angry, mislead and absolutely bloody furious. He had thought that that kiss was real, had meant something. He thought Sherlock had meant it back, because John had put all his heart and soul into that single kiss, and then Sherlock had ripped it out, and stabbed it with a knife. He looked down at the tray of shots he was holding. His hands were shaking. He wanted to smash the glass against the wall, yelling. But why not put them to good use? No nanny was here to supervise him and scold him now, he thought bitterly. Then he started to down the shots as quickly as possible.


	6. Sherlock Messed Up

**Hi guys! This is just a short little filler chapter, annoying but necessary! Hope you like it! Please R&R!**

**_'Boy don't turn and walk away_**  
**_I messed up_**  
**_Don't throw it all away_**  
**_I messed up_**  
**_Just put the blame on me_**  
**_I messed up_**  
**_Oh, oh ,oh I messed up_**  
**_I'm confessing my mistakes _**  
**_I messed up_**  
**_Don't take your love away_**  
**_I messed up_**  
**_What will it take for you to stay_**  
**_I messed up_**  
**_Oh, oh, oh I messed up' Toya._**

**Sherlock messes up.**

SHIT. Those were the words that first entered Sherlock's head when he slammed the bar door behind him, leaning his head against the cold brick wall. What the hell had he just done? His only chance with John and he'd screwed up. Weeks of careful planning ruined. He was a high functioning sociopath, he reminded himself. These things were to be expected. John was almost definitely getting drunk in there, bitter and revengeful. For all his intelligence, Sherlock was an idiot in love. He could never make the words come out as he wanted them His usually loyal mind played cruel tricks against him. He had panicked in there; let his emotions take control of the situation. Isn't that what their supposed to do? He pondered bitterly. Trust him to mess up the only chance he had at ever finding happiness. John is probably feeling rejected and mislead. But how would he know? He smashed his fist angrily against the wall, kicking a rubbish bin over, bags spewing onto the alley, a cat mewing. He took a few calming, deep breaths. He knew it was not logical to continue letting his emotions control him in this destructive manner. What could he accomplish then? He must at least try to apologize to John. Perhaps more. He sighed. It could never come to that level again. His damage had been irreplaceable. But he could not deny his feelings. Turning around, he opened the door and stepped inside.


	7. I Love You

**_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed any of my stories, I love you! This is the penultimate chapter, and it's been a ride! I loved writing this, I hope you enjoy this! Unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any mistakes! I will update the last chapter soon hopefully!Enjoy!_**

**_'I don't know what is it but  
I Love you  
I don't know what you do but  
I love you  
Oooh baby' Chris Brown  
_**

John's mind whirred as he span around and around the tables, doing his best aeroplane impression, hopelessly drunk. Sherlock had rejected him. That was the only thought that his brain could comprehend, even after he had moved onto his second tray of shots. He would have to find a new flatmate, ticketyboo, very soon, he thought, giggling to himself. Oh, and he'd have to have a few words with that bastard Sherlock first. But, yum, he was a great kisser. John could still feel his lips tingling from the aftermath of that disaster. As he heard the bar door creak open, his eyes drunkenly rose to observe Sherlock's set and unemotional face peer in. Oh, that prick needed a talking to, he thought. He tried to put on his best stern walk, but ended up drunkenly swaggering around the tables, even at one point slipping on a puddle of either beer or sick, he couldn't tell. His last attempts at looking even remotely sober were flushed down the drain. "Swirly whirly drain!" He shouted, laughing uncontrollably, clutching his sides. He then proceeded to fall flat on his face, but Sherlock rushed out to grab him. John reeled at the physical contact, still clutching his wounded dignity.

"Oi, get of me, you bastard! You bloody betrayer!" John glared accusingly at Sherlock. Sherlock dropped his hold of John.

"Yeah, that's right, bugger off!" John anger at his rejection erupted inside him, spilling out. Drunkenly, with no aim whatsoever, he swung his fist at Sherlock. Sherlock, who appeared to be the only sober one in the room, lazily grabbed John's fist in mid air. John cringed, waiting for the pain that never came. Sherlock pulled him closer. John was startled. He hadn't been expecting that. He half heartedly tried to pull away, what if Sherlock was trying to use him again? But as Sherlock pulled him into kiss him, he whispered, "This one is real. I love you." And John forgot everything else. Sherlock loved him. This was real.

As John's lips moved towards his, Sherlock was dazed. He was a sociopath. Sociopaths didn't feel emotion, let alone love anyone. But he did love John. He knew that. What did that make him? A deformed sociopath? Or not even a sociopath at all? That line had slipped out. 'I love you', those three words that changed everything. What if now John rejected him? But he had not felt any resistance from John. When their lips met now, it was still as magical as the first time, but more gentle. John melted against Sherlock. John loved this madman, this rejected sociopath of society. Damn the consequences. Gently, Sherlock pulled back, his eyes looking down tenderly into John's. John pulled him into another kiss. Sherlock smiled a rare, genuine smile. Then John shouted,

"LET'S GET WASTED! WOOOP!" John shoved another bottle of that mysterious drink into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock laughed wordlessly, and chugged down the bottle in less than 10 seconds. John stared at him in amazement. Sherlock winked and said, "Practice."

Then the world spun by. John couldn't remember much, just the feeling of alcohol burning down his throat. Surprisingly, he saw Sherlock getting absolutely wasted; he should have brought his camera. At one point he vaguely remembered jumping onto the bar, and pole dancing. A moment he would probably regret. But most of all he remembered Sherlock. His body pressed against John's, the taste of alcohol on his moist lips, his soft, sweaty curls. They were kicked out the bar at around 3am, an hour after closing time. With no way of getting home, all the taxis gone, John passed out on Sherlock, lying on a park bench, legs entwined, Sherlock's arms draped over chest.

**_Hope you enjoyed, please review! _**


	8. I Was Drunk

**Thanks so much to all my lovely reviewers! I am sad and also relieved that this will be the last chapter, thank you to everyone who has stuck and kept reading! Please tell me what you think at the end and if you want to suggest any new plots for a new Sherlock story, you're welcome! Enjoy!**

_**'I was drunk  
and I was loud  
I was invincible  
and I was proud**_

yea I was drunk  
and I was loud  
and I was proud

yea I was drunk  
and I was loud  
I was invincible  
and I was proud' Royal Bliss

John was startled awake by the blearing beep of a passing car. He groggily opened his eyes. Big mistake. The light pierced his brain like a hot knife. All his blurred memories came flooding back to him. Wow. That was a night he wouldn't forget. Then there was Sherlock. His Sherlock now, he hoped. He was shaken from his reverie by the grumblings of the weight lying on top of him, namely Sherlock. Then he remembered where he was. On a cold, wet park bench in the middle of central London. They should probably move. As Sherlock showed no signs of going on anywhere, he slowly peeped on his eyes. He had a head like a sore bear, and he was sure his stomach wasn't going to forgive him anytime soon. Thankfully the park was empty of any innocent children and only the occasional tutting pensioner was passing. But just as he was beginning to sit up, Sherlock began to roll of the bench. Frankly it was a miracle that they had managed to stay at all. Desperate and quick thinking, John grabbed his arms around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock moaned quietly. Wrong place, John thought regretfully. Just at the moment, a mother with a toddler and pram in hand strolled past the park gates. John cringed.

"Mummy!" the young girl whined. "What are those two silly men doing on that bench?" she lisped innocently. Her mother glared at John disapprovingly, shaking her head. "I'll tell you when you're older sweetie, now stop staring, we can go to the park another time!" she hurriedly pushed the pram away. John sighed. Peace again. Then he felt a drop of rain roll down his cheek. Great. Now he would be forced to wake up Sherlock, something he had been trying to avoid. He looked so innocent when he was sleeping. As gently as possible, he shook Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, he looked momentarily surprised. "John! What the hell am I doing on a park bench?"

"So you don't remember last night then?" John grimaced. This would be awkward to explain.

"Oh no, of course I remember last night!" he pulled John in for a playful kiss. John melted. He couldn't here. "But how the hell did I get on a park bench?" John just smiled. The rain started to pour down. "I think we should be getting back Sherlock," John unsteadily stood up, feeling woozy. Sherlock pouted, but obliged. As they walked out the park, Sherlock took his hand. John looked down, surprised. Sherlock rarely showed affection. He had a sense of déjà vu. It was just last night. John smiled. A lot could change in one night. As a taxi rolled over, he looked at Sherlock, and kissed him.

Sherlock lay on John's bed with his eyes closed, nursing his aching head. Never, would he drink that much again. He nuzzled into John's duvet, smiling. John was in the kitchen making tea. How domestic. He loved John. But he had one secret eating inside him. Sociopaths didn't feel, he thought. But he probably should tell John. Thankfully, he hadn't asked about the 'murder' yet, but he couldn't hide it forever. When would he tell him it had all been a set up? A set up so Sherlock could show his feelings for John, and John his for Sherlock? Would he feel betrayed? It had been for the greater good, he reassured himself. Pulling out his ever present phone, he texted Mycroft. _Thank you._ Placing it back in his pocket, he shouted, "John, about the murder..."

**THE END**


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